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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994914">The Art of Being Unclean</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, F/F, Faceclaims in Notes, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Genderswap, Insecure Eddie Kaspbrak, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Lesbian Eddie Kaspbrak, Lesbian Richie Tozier, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, Oblivious Richie Tozier, Please read notes, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Soft Richie Tozier, Teenage Losers Club (IT), Trigger Warning for Explicit Internalized Lesbophobia, Weed For a Minute in Chapter Three, early 2000s, lesbian reddie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:49:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,051</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994914</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how many times Eden Kaspbrak washed her hands until they were pink and raw, she couldn't wash away the fear of being unclean.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak &amp; Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, The Losers Club (IT) - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. And There Was Darkness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In this story Richie and Eddie are both lesbians, but their nicknames still stay the same. Richie is mostly referred to as Richie, but her name is Rochelle. Eddie is referred to often by both Eden and Eddie. </p><p>Also, warning for internalized lesbophobia. Richie calls herself the D slur, but I'm a lesbian so I'm allowed to reclaim it and Richie is also a lesbian in this as well. Sonia is also lesbophobic, but it's not explicit, it's just referenced.</p><p>Faceclaims for teen lesbian Reddie are here ( the top two, left being Eddie and right being Richie ) : https://twitter.com/sapphicreddie/status/1234533187931389953?s=21</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Uncleanliness was a monster. Eden Kaspbrak could imagine it easily; a vicious monster caked in dried blood and dirt, dripping saliva from sharp rows of teeth, nose replaced with an empty hole. A creature that gurgles and growls and runs; something loud and angry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe the constant fear of this monster, lurking in the shadows or beneath the dirt of in the murky water of the Quarry, waiting for you to prick your finger on the wrong thing, waiting to crawl beneath your skin and ruin your life, was what kept Eden making so many attempts to stay as hygienic as she could. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mama was likely a big influence on this, as well. From a young age she’d spout out about how Eddie was a fragile girl as she walked her to the car so that they could go home from school; white sneakers <em>tap</em> <em>tap</em> tapping against the pavement, narrowly avoiding puddles of water as she nodded along. Once she’d slipped into the passenger seat, Sonia would drench her hands in hand sanitizer and then lotion before she pulled onto the road. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It stuck with her throughout her life; it felt sort of gluttonous, thick and mushy, something she wished she could shake. No matter how many times she washed her hands until they were pink and raw, she couldn’t wash away the fear of being unclean. It still pricked at her, just beneath her skin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She would scrub and scrub, hands bubbling with island breeze hand soap and trembling, and then grip the edge of the sink when her vision flickered in and out like a broken light bulb, blurred and scratchy like she’d been plunged beneath the water, and when she’d meet her own eyes in the mirror they were rosy and swollen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Weirdly enough, some of Eddie’s closest friends were the messiest people she’d met. Stan Uris was a rather clean boy, but in a different way; he was always well kept, smelling like warm cotton, tucked in button up shirts and khakis, but his room was always cluttered. He liked to call it an organized mess; nothing made sense, some books laid on tables or markers strewn about, but he’d rather have it this way. Eddie didn’t understand it, but at least Stanley Uris was clean. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His other friends were always drenched in sweat or reeking of menthol cigarettes that Bev easily swipes from the Pharmacy; dirt caked between nails, knees scraped and scabbing, teeth crooked and certainly not white. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie spent a lot of time cleaning them up; Rochelle Tozier age fourteen with a nasty cut on her calf from falling off of her bike, caked in dirt, wincing as Eddie dabbed a cotton ball from her purse drenched in peroxide over the freshly cleaned wound. She bit her lip as she applied a Hello Kitty bandaid, bright pink with cartoon bows, making a sly comment to her friend about what she would do without her. “Crash and burn,” Richie had responded, black hair curling around her freckled cheeks like a halo, smile wide and a touch genuine. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And, well, Richie in general was an enigma, really. There wasn’t a word to describe her; she was primary colors and crooked teeth and bubblegum. She was almost taller than all of their friends, five foot eight, just below Mike Hanlon, the same height as Stanley. Her hair was unbelievably messy; straightened it likely reached her shoulders, but it only just passed the curve of her jaw as is. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A lot of the time spent with Richie was filled with laughter hidden behind hands as she told cliche jokes, recycling humor, always beaming when she caught sight of Eddie giggling. It was hard to remember that she was a real person, sometimes, and Eden was sure that she wasn’t the only one of their friends to feel this way. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It felt like Richie Tozier was the real comedic relief to an otherwise cluttered life, a human being crafted to add levity to even the most gruesome situations. And, of course, she wasn’t; no human being is designed this way, born without anger or grief or sadness, only existing in a world of laughter and youth and health. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And there were fleeting moments, like the flicker of a firefly in the darkness, breeze rustling the trees as a fire crackles warmly and the stars blink in the sky, where Richie’s resolve broke, and she was genuine, and this flashed on every surface of her skin like fireworks. These moments were there one second and gone the next, fading into the night sky like mist.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But, like fireflies, sometimes these moments could be grasped; and sometimes they came on their own, crawling across your knuckles, like a little brush of air that whispers, through the silence, an</span>
  <em>
    <span> I trust you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie Kaspbrak could feel the moment in the palm of her hand like a firefly as she turned to Richie next to her on the sofa, a shared bowl of popcorn between them. Richie isn’t looking back, but she seems tense, on the brink speaking. Her curly hair is falling over her forehead, and it’s easy to see the bumpy bridge of her nose like this, and the triangular curve of her lips. “You know the things they say about me?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once she speaks it’s almost as if it rolled off of her tongue on its own accord, like a ball rolling down a hill away from a group of children. Except, unlike a ball, Richie cannot chase it, take it back, so she just tenses a little and avoids looking at Eddie entirely. The sound of their stuttered breathing mangles in the air. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t,” Eddie starts, and then stops, because her voice has come out strangled, and she can practically feel the thorny vines that have tangled around her lungs now. She uses both of her hands to tuck her brown locks behind either ear, a bit too awkward, and then leaves her dainty fingers clasping together in her lap, buried in the soft curve of the blanket. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A bit of the tension flows from between Richie’s lips in the form of a sigh, shoulders slumping, and her brown eyes move to rest on the dimly lit carpet in front of her. For a moment it feels like she’s left her own body, the carcass of something that once lived and breathed with incessant life, now only rotting remains. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But then she turns to meet Eddie’s eyes, and her own are spilling with emotion, dripping like a broken faucet. They’re not lifeless, but supplying life to the rest of her inexpressive body, like the moon provides light to an otherwise dark night. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She licks at her lip nervously, and Eddie fleetingly wonders if her lips taste like the strawberry chapstick she borrowed and never gave back. “A dyke,” Richie turns away, eye contact breaking apart as she returns her eyes on the carpet. Eddie flinches at the word as soon as it arrives in the air.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She remembers how easily it’s spat to Richie; Bev gets called a slut, and Eden is the spoiled princess, and Rochelle is the dyke. Greta Keene’s own little book of insults, plucked carefully, chosen well to snarl in the girls bathroom after sixth period. Eddie sometimes imagines that Greta owns some graph paper notebook where she documents each individualized insult that she chooses for her classmates. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For some reason, even as Richie says it about herself, only echoing Greta and Henry and all the other piece of shit people in this town, it still burns like she’s poured salt in a fresh wound. Is this how Richie felt when Eddie dabbed hydrogen peroxide on the open flesh of her scraped leg all those years ago?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think, um,” Richie says, and her voice is scratchy like it is in the mornings, when she has just woken up and the sun peers through the window, and she greets Eddie fondly. Too tired and too drained to come up with some stupid joke, so she just smiles, and she just breathes. “I just,” She tries again, stammering, “What if I am a fucking dyke, is what I mean!” She finally says, and her hands flail. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then, lamely, as if she hadn’t meant to say it at all but gave up on controlling her mouth long ago, she slumps and tosses her hands into her lap, pouting. It would be far more cute to Eddie had the air not felt scratchy and frigid as Richie timidly looked up at her, almost coy behind the curls of black hair and the rosy curve of her cheekbones. “Like, who fuckin’ cares?” She says tiredly, but Eddie can hear something beneath it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Something that sounds a lot like: <em>Would you care, Eds? Would you look at me different? </em></span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t care,” She responds, and it feels almost too easy to say, and almost too true. It scares her to death, and it feels unclean, like moss has begun weaving itself around her bones, spreading throughout her entire body. But, as Richie’s eyes glisten with something akin to excitement at the response, the tension visibly leaving her tightly strung body, Eddie finds that, for the first time, it doesn’t matter so much if she feels unclean. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>/</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walking into a home is supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be bounding up the steps, shoes clacking against the pavement, tugging the door open to tell your parents about the exciting day you had, hanging your coat on the hooks and rummaging through your cabinet for sweets. But, to Eden, home was empty. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t as if her mom wasn’t there; actually, she was there more than most parents, but rather than listening to the important things her child has to say, she bombards her with fear and suffocation, leaving her gutted like a pumpkin, empty and hollow. She feels like a ghost in her own home, or a foreigner who doesn’t speak the local vernacular. Her mom speaks and speaks but doesn’t listen. She doesn’t hear. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luckily enough, Sonia isn’t home when Eddie gets there. She’s left the television on, which quietly plays Jurassic Park; muffled screams play from the tv as a helpless character runs from a dinosaur, and she hardly pays a second glance at the movie through the doorway to the living room before she cringes and scurries from the foyer to the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She feels miniscule here, weirdly enough. The ceilings aren’t tall and the rooms aren’t so wide, but she still feels tiny as a mouse, socked feet tapping silently against the tile of the floor. She’d left Richie’s house after a sleepover right before they began eating lunch, and her stomach aches, so she grabs some of the strawberries from the refrigerator and goes to the sink to wash them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As the warm water flows over the pink berries, her mind drifts to Richie. Richie’s eyes, wide and brown behind wiry glasses. Her lips, rosy pink, sometimes a twinge orange when she wears her favorite lipstick. Her hands, soft and thin, long fingers and short nails. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then, she thinks of the confession; of the words that hung between them, of Richie Tozier liking girls, kissing girls and holding their hands - she halts suddenly when she thinks of Richie’s lips on her own, stomach twisting with something like fear, nearly dropping the plastic container of the strawberries into the sink. It has taken her until now to realize just how hot the water was, and she shoves down the faucet, and a few more droplets drip out and tap against the silver bottom of the sink. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There's a feeling deep in the pit of her stomach that she can’t find the name for; something that scares her, but doesn’t feel inherently bad. She’s never been good with words, or feelings, never being able to focus on one thought or emotion long enough to figure out what it means. Obviously, she knows how it is to feel sad. Or to feel happy, or angry, or excited. But this? A deep tugging in her chest, a white-hot feeling spreading across the surface of her skin? She feels hollow, and confused. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe this is exactly how jack-o-lanterns feel after their insides have been emptied, scooped out and scraped, flesh carved and cut and torn. Two circles for eyes, a triangle nose, a mouth made of a crescent moon. Maybe this warm feeling in her chest is much like how they feel when a candle is placed in their hollowed out corpse. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe she should just stop thinking so much. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She bites into a strawberry, and it floods her mouth with tartness, flavor bittersweet and dancing on the surface of her tongue as her eyes search the room for something to occupy her mind. Suddenly the room feels larger than it is, the walls seemingly towering high over her head; she is small here, unbelievably so. She is alone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A scream from the television causes her to flinch out of her reverie, accidentally dropping her bitten fruit onto the table, and she rolls her eyes as she picks it up, holds it in her small hand. The floor screeches like a dinosaur on the television when she pushes out the stool she’s seated on, advancing towards the trash can. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her hands tremble fiercely as she drops the strawberry into the garbage; she just wishes Richie were here. It seemed that she could always remove every ounce of loneliness that Eddie felt, filling her with youth. She never felt so fragile and dainty and small around Richie. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eden goes to the sink, pushes the faucet on searing hot, and scrubs her hands until they’re bright red and numb. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>/</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not long until Sonia comes home, clambering through the door with bags of groceries; she always did grocery shopping right after work as an attempt to save gas or something of the like. She makes Eden help her put them away, and then sets on making dinner; penne noodles drenched in spaghetti sauce and Parmesan cheese. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie doesn’t really like food like this all that much, and it seems like they have the same flavorless meals on loop every week, but Sonia would likely start an argument about the fragility of Eden if the girl brought up alternate meals, so she just sat and ate at the dinner table when it was finished. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sonia always ate too loud and quick; Eden could hear the food mashing loudly in her mouth from across the table, and she held in a gag and averted her eyes from the scene of her shoveling pennes into her mouth. People always picked on Eddie, said she ate slow and tiny bites, like a bird. But, as she bit into the end of a piece of pasta, she thought they should feel lucky that she didn’t eat like Sonia. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The woman takes a break from her food, wiping her mouth with a rough napkin, to sip her lemon iced tea; the ice in the glass clangs against the side of the cup, obnoxious paired with the loud slurping sounds, and then Sonia is placing the cup back on the table once more. Eden watches, tucking her somewhat lengthy hair behind either ear nervously, and Sonia raises an eyebrow at her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t say anything, though; she never really does, always judging Eden, silently forcing her into the snug box of cleanliness and femininity, but never saying anything. It’s like Eden is a beauty pageant kid, one that her parents exploit for cash and popularity. She’s standing on a stage, dolled up, lips glossy pink and a long gown on her particularly small body. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A crowd applauds her, and she holds flowers and waves elegantly, and her mother watches from the crowd. She just wants her little girl to be perfect and beautiful and clean, well dressed and well tempered. Mouth pink, thick falsies glued over her real eyelashes, acrylic nails pasted over her real ones. That’s the dream; all that Sonia could ever want for her beautiful Eden. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But is that what Eddie wants? To be perfect and polished and clean? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She’s afraid when she finds that she doesn’t know the answer herself. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Garden of Eden ( Temptation )</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eden remembers the dream vividly when she wakes; her head is resting against the white pillow, hair separated into two braids to keep it from knotting; some loose locks fall over her forehead, slick with sweat. Her chest heaves violently, shuttering beneath the fabric of her night gown. It’s only when she pushes herself up so that she’s sitting on the bed, legs curling her into a ball, that she begins to sob quietly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The memories of the dream - nightmare, more likely - flicker in her mind like a montage. There might as well be a dramatic organ playing in the background, keys slamming as another memory fights its way to the forefront of her mind. Skin, lips, soft touches, happiness - and then - coughing, sputtering, covered in dirt and blood, alone and hollowed out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her head aches as tears steadily pour; as she tries to ground herself it only comes harder, and her skin feels hot as she squeezes her eyes tightly shut, fiercely rubbing away the drying tears. She feels something roll down from her nose to her lips, smelling metallic, and she knows what it is before she even touches it; “Fucking <em>shit</em>,” She whispers, shakily, when she finds that her fingertips are coated in blood. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Eden gets to the restroom, her own reflection looks so miserable that she can’t look away for a moment; all below her nose is smeared with drying blood, and her cheeks are shiny with tear tracks, her lips wobbly, her eyes swollen. Other girls look pretty when they cry, she thinks. The girls on television, in the movies, always crying softly, padding at their cheeks with a tissue. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But she just looks pathetic; like a toddler crying in the street because they dropped their ice cream cone. She should’ve known that it was nearly impossible for her to look like all of the pretty girls, the clean girls - she wasn’t clean. On the surface she tried so hard to be, but beneath her skin, she was just as dirty as the boys. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes focus on the scarlet blood, drying on her skin. That’s where it is; beneath her skin, that’s where this uncleanliness lies. Pulsing through her veins, always there, within every inch of her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eden grabs a red washrag from the shelf near the sink and runs it under the cold water, gently rubbing it against the blood on her face. <em>Dirty</em>, her brain recalls, from the dream. <em>Dirty, wrong, unclean.</em> She doesn’t understand why she feels the way that she does; it feels like she’s not only lacking control of her emotions but lacking understanding of them, and she hates it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beverly knows what she feels. So does Richie, and Ben, and Bill; all of them seem to have it under control, but here Eddie is. Confused, and dirty, and <em>wrong</em>. Part of her wishes there were someone to tell her what it is; <em>why do I feel this way? What does it mean?</em></span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s nobody that can answer her but herself, though, and she recalls this as she lowers the rag from her nose. She’s clean now, on the surface, but she’ll never be clean where she wants to be. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes are still swollen as her reflection stares back at her, and she trembles. It doesn’t feel like a reflection at all; it just feels mocking, like it’s teasing her. Making fun of the fact that she appears put together to everyone - friends, family, peers - but to herself, she’ll always be a mess. This is what you are beneath, the reflection tells her. “What the fuck does it mean?” Eddie asks herself, begging for an answer. But her reflection doesn’t respond, and neither does her mind. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>These are the moments where she feels loneliest, she thinks as she drops the rag into the hamper. These are the moments where she realizes that nobody will ever truly understand her. Not even herself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>/</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Walking out of her house always feels like walking off of a hollow lot, leaving behind nothing but grass and moss and dirt. When she finally plants her feet onto the pavement, shoes clicking on the sidewalk softly, she doesn’t turn around; instead, she imagines nothing but rocks and debris left behind. Something like guilt surges through her, but she can’t find it in her to turn around. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey!” She hears, then, and is distracted by the pretty freckled redhead known as Beverly Marsh advancing towards her. The girl always seems to glow, skin pale and freckled, hair short and golden red. She’s holding a grocery bag, and Eddie can easily assume that it’s food for their movie night. “Stopped to get snacks,” She confirms with a bright smile, dangling the plastic bag. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie can’t find it in her to respond, too caught up on her busy mind - she’d just had a dream about Richie last night, and she felt almost afraid to see her. She tried to push these thoughts away before she appeared on the surface, but they bubbled in her mind like boiling water; searing hot, needing to be spilled. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Something on your mind?” Beverly asks, then; she’s always been great at reading people, and it was especially easy to tell what Eddie was feeling. It felt like every emotion she felt played out on her face. Eden licks at her lips nervously and crosses her arms, feeling a sudden chill; it’s hard to tell if it’s caused by the breeze shuffling through the trees or just the startling feeling of her emotions simmering beneath her flesh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She scratches at the smooth skin near her elbow nervously as they walk along the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact with the pretty girl next to her. Eddie is just a few inches taller, but she’s still insanely nervous around Bev; intimidated by her, maybe. She’s seen her drop kick an asshole who tried to grope her in a Dairy Queen parking lot, so she thinks it’s justified. “Actually, yeah,” Eden forces out, voice crackling nervously, and she turns to make eye contact with the blue eyed girl, “I - um - I had a dream.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beverly furrows her eyebrows and laughs softly; “Okay, Martin Luther King Jr.,” She teases, turning to look ahead as she fumbles with her fingers. Softer, almost shy, she asks; “What kind of dream?” Eden pretends, just for a second, that Beverly is just as nervous around her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Eddie hesitates to answer, if only because the words she wants to say are sticking to the inside of her mouth like bubblegum, Beverly takes this as a cue for something so close yet so far from the truth. “Eddie…” She begins, and her eyes travel along the course of Eden’s face, wide in shock, “Did you have a fucking wet dream?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eden gapes; Beverly is laughing, and the giggles are so contagious that Eddie joins in, managing out a - “No!” - as their laughter fades out. Smiles ghost over their lips still, and Eddie thinks of happy times, before all the confusion. It’s hard to pinpoint when all of this frustration began, but she knows there’s a time where it wasn’t there. A time where she smiled, laughed, allowed herself to feel free. She mourns that time now. It feels dead, and abandoned, somewhere in the fields and flatlands of Eden’s memory - somewhere she just can’t manage to find now that it’s gone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not allowing the last of her mirth to be taken away from her, an echo of the childhood she’d once wanted to escape from, the smile remains on her face, a little more wistful, as she says, “It was nice though. At first. But, it didn’t end well.” By the end of the sentence, her grin has faded and bled out. She’s used to feeling hollow by now, but it still aches. “And it was about someone I never really thought about in that way before…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then something deep within her clicks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Like a voltage of electricity over her skin, sending goosebumps flying along the surface of her flesh. She nearly stops walking, slowing considerably; she can’t look at Bev, or ahead of them, can’t look anywhere but the beige sidewalk. The bubbling, boiling feeling in her gut starts to feel like lava, too thick, too angry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She wants to throw up, if only to purge herself of this feeling like you might purge yourself of a toxin; hovering over the toilet, coughing and heaving. Even as it starts to make sense, she still feels so confused. “And now you think you might?” Beverly asks, a step ahead of Eddie, and the words are so lost within her throat that all she can do is look into Beverly’s eyes and hope she sees the answer there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We should go,” Eddie says, instead, and after a beat she begins walking faster; her shoes sound louder in her ears as they hit the ground now, syncing with the pounding of her heart. She wouldn’t be shocked if she’d ended up passing out, or vomiting in the bushes of Mrs. Adkins’ house, but instead she braves forward until they finally get to Richie’s house. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>/ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie finds that seeing Richie is both harder and easier than she’d expected. Upon sight of the beautiful girl, curly hair framing her face and freckles adorning her cheeks, Eddie’s heart soars to the clouds. She feels like she’s in one of those dreams that strike you awake; the ones where you’re falling, falling, and then your eyes fly open just before your body meets the ground. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But it’s still Richie, and even as her insides mangle with thorns that dig into the grooves of her aching heart, she still finds that it’s almost too easy to be around her. Too many times she catches herself wondering; leaning onto the counter with her shoulders, eyes tracking over Richie’s skin. There’s something about her that ignites, both beneath her and on the surface. Liquid gold runs through her bloods, and you can see it in her veins, shining there. Making her perfect, wanted, despite all the hate that is so easily spewed at her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The exchanging of jokes is always easy between them, something that has graced their friendship since the very beginning, but Eddie finds that now it’s become hard for her to come up with clever comebacks to each thing that Richie says. She’ll get over it, likely; realize all of these faux feelings are only here because of Richie recently opening up about her sexuality. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But, if she can acknowledge that her feelings are only a placebo, a mirage in a place deserted of true emotion, why aren’t they gone? Why does her mind keep drifting back to the image of Richie’s lips on her own, soft palms gracing the skin of her arm, leaving goosebumps in the wake of her touch? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’re alone in the kitchen as Eddie pours herself a cup of sweet tea from a pitcher in the refrigerator, Richie leaning her back against the cool marble surface of the island as she waits for the buttery popcorn to finish popping. “I wanted to come out to the others,” Richie announces, and Eddie doesn’t respond for a moment, but her hand trembles so suddenly that she nearly spills some of the tea onto the countertop. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” She asks, then, forced from her throat; it scratches when she says it, but Richie doesn’t seem to notice. Her pretty brown eyes are focused on the microwave, which buzzes lowly as the expanding bag of popcorn spins around. “Today?” Eddie asks for clarification, and Richie turns to look at her, so Eddie is quick to distract herself with putting the rest of the tea back into the fridge. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think so,” Richie says, softly, and when Eddie finally looks back at her she finds that Richie’s expression is the softest she’s seen of her since she got high in the basement and laid herself out over the couch, playing with Eden’s hair and telling her she had pretty eyes. “I was just wondering if maybe you’d be okay with being there? When I do?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie’s face melts into something much more sincere, achingly genuine; she’s scared as all hell of her feelings and why they wont go away, scared that she’ll fuck it all up for something she doesn’t even feel, but she seems to have forgotten that Richie is just as scared as she is. It isn’t a phase for Richie like it is for Eddie, and she suddenly feels selfish for it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, Rich, you’re my best friend,” Eddie says, nodding, gentle, “I care about you.” Richie looks back at her with an expression only comparable to a puppy begging for food at your feet, eyebrows pushed up and lips pouting; a smile hides there, burrowed in the soft curve of her lips and the wrinkle in the corner of her eyes. But the smile fades, and for a fleeting moment, she appears wounded. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, fear strikes in her heart, thorns only digging in tighter, ache heightening, but then the microwave beeps out and Richie blinks suddenly and nods. “Yeah, thanks Eds,” She says, and Eddie’s chest wobbles as she laughs. Richie’s stare breaks away from Eddie’s own so that she can pull the warm bag carefully from the microwave, and Eddie’s eyes train on her nimble hands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome, asshole,” Eddie responds softly, like an afterthought, and Richie laughs just as quiet when she walks past, heading in the direction of the living room where the rest of their friends reside. As Eden swipes her cup from the top of the counter, ice clanging against the side of the glass, she laughs and calls towards Richie’s back, “And Eds is a shitty nickname, dick!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For just a fleeting moment, she thinks maybe she doesn’t mind the nickname so much — as long as Richie is the one saying it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Clean ( Without Sin )</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Richie’s house always feels easier to breathe in than Eden’s own. Her bedroom is just slightly larger than Eddie’s, and it isn’t dirty per se, but comic books are laid out on the end of her bed and her backpack is just thrown carelessly on the floor beside the window. Despite the clutter, Eden still prefers it here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something about Eddie’s house feels decayed, like the entire place is six feet under; it reeks of artificial scented air fresheners and hand sanitizer - the kind that just smells bitter, rather than the fruity or sweet ones. But the Tozier’s residence radiates with life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie is enough to light up a room on her own, her smile blazing like a star, her laughter pulsing through the air like a heartbeat for the atmosphere. But paired with her parents, whose incredible kindness made up for the guilt inducing venom that Sonia loved to spew, their entire house vibrated with happiness and light. When Eden walked into their house, pushing off her Mary Janes and leaving them next to the door in the foyer, she felt like she’d never die. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She throws herself onto Richie’s messily made bed, laying herself on the teal covers, as Richie shuts the bedroom door. “Shit, Eds,” She says, seemingly remembering some important information, and she smiles as she heads in the direction of her desk. Eddie averts her eyes to the ceiling, painted white, not bothering to say anything about the nickname. It’s almost too easy for Richie to influence her guard down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can hear the shuffling of Richie’s hands through her desk drawer before she seems to find what she was looking for, and Eddie pushes herself up so that she’s sitting again. In Richie’s hand is a little plastic bag with something in it, and Eden’s eyebrows furrow curiously. “Are those cigarettes?” She asks, but she doesn’t really understand why Richie would keep them in a plastic bag. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie’s hands pry open the plastic bag, which makes a wrinkling sound in her hands, and she pulls out one of the white sticks and presents it to Eden with a wide grin. “Guess again?” She asks, tossing the bag into the drawer and grabbing a pink lighter before she bumps the drawer shut with her hip. It rattles the desk when it halts shut, but Richie hardly bats an eye as she walks over to the bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eden takes the time to study whatever Richie is holding between her nimble fingers. Her eyes widen a little in realization - “Rich, is that weed?” - and Richie bites her lip and giggles in a way that shouldn’t be so cute. But still, it’s incredibly adorable, and Eden can’t deny the way her heart trembles as Richie puts the stick between her lips. The lack of response is answer enough. Eddie can’t help but laugh, too; it’s breathy and disbelieving as her eyes study Richie’s lips around the blunt. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Richie flicks the lighter, and the flame sparks alive, dancing around from where it rises. The girl carefully holds it to the end of the blunt until she knows it has caught onto the flame, and then she tosses the lighter carelessly onto the bed. “I got it from my cousin,” Richie tells her, holding the blunt between her fingers, “You wanna try?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eden’s eyes drift from Richie’s eyes to her mouth, rosy pink, parted for a stream of thin smoke to float from. What she really yearns to do is to just seal their lips, taste the smoke between their mouths that way, but she doesn’t. The thought of it causes her to tremble before she pushes it away, further in the dark corners of her mind, denying the truth that weaves through it. Because, she can’t really want it - she thinks she wants it, but she doesn’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is it dangerous?” Eden asks, eyes moving back up to Richie’s eyes, taking notice of her dilated pupils that push against the dark irises of her eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie shrugs, takes another hit, and as the smoke flows from her lips she lets out a tiny cough. “It isn’t any worse than the legal stuff,” She says, and with just a moments hesitation, Eddie carefully plucks the blunt from Richie’s hand and seals her lips around the end. She parts with a small cough, looking into Richie’s eyes sheepishly with the tiniest hint of a smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Richie laughs, Eden does too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their laughter tangles in the air like moss along the side of a brick house, budding flowers in its wake, breathing life into the surrounding air. It isn’t long until they’re settled by the open window, cold air blowing through the room and onto their flushed skin. Eddie laughs softly after a hit, handing the blunt over to Richie; their hands touch gently, and it almost tickles with how gentle it is. “Hey, Rich?” Eden asks softly; the colors on Richie’s skin seem gentler but brighter; her freckles highlighted on the curve of her cheeks, a warm blush settled there. “How did you know?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie laughs at this, too; her eyes focus on Eddie’s face, and then at the stars out of the window, shining in the abyss of the night sky. “How’d I know what, exactly?” She asks before a hit, making a failed attempt of a ring out of the smoke. Eddie doesn’t laugh this time, but she does feel a warm smile spread over her mouth on its own accord, and she lets it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That you’re…” Eddie pauses, shifts nervously. She can hear the pounding of her heart, not fast but loud, pulsing behind her ears. “That you like girls?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie exhales somewhat sharply, leaning her weight against the windowsill fully. She looks pretty like this, unraveled like thread, hair loosely falling across the milky skin of her face. There’s something about her that exists beyond Eddie’s comprehension, like a God. “I mean, I just liked girls,” Richie shrugs, averting eye contact to study the horizon of pitch black trees. “Wanted to kiss girls, thought they were pretty, wanted to grow old with them. Well, not all of them. Just one, really.” </span>
  <span></span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s just from the high, but Richie’s cheeks seem to glow a little bit brighter red. “I think that sounds nice,” Eddie says, and Richie turns to her quickly; when their eyes connect, Eden takes note of how rosy pink Richie’s look, “I just - I don’t wanna be a boy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This startles a laugh from Richie, who offers over the blunt again. Eddie takes hold of it carefully. “I don’t wanna be a boy either, Eds,” She says, voice uncharacteristically soft against the gentle shuffle of leaves against leaves outside, “I just wanna be with a girl.” Eddie meets her eyes as she inhales, and her heart sparks aflame at the expression that Richie sends her way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something kind, something understanding; something that makes Eddie feel entirely safe, and completely at ease. Maybe it’s easier being here than at her own house because this is her home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or maybe it’s Richie that is her home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>/</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Derry always feels like an open flame. Or, maybe, just a match; the world is green and alive with budding flowers and hovering butterflies, but this threat looms itself in the shadows. Eddie is always afraid of the match being struck, sparking a flame, and burning down the colorful life that she’s found for herself here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As she enters the library, glass door swinging shut and leaving the light of the sun peering through, her shoes click softly against the carpeted ground. Richie had asked Eden to meet her here the day before. They’d talked like usual, as if nothing had happened over the weekend, after Eddie completely avoided responding when Richie would softly bring it up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her guard was always down around Richie, but it was especially so without the qualms of her fears to suffocate her, and she still felt the nagging insecurity in her brain like a gnat, wondering why she’d allow herself to admit her confusions to Richie. It’s not that the other girl isn’t trustworthy, because she can certainly keep secrets locked up inside her when it matters, but there's that fear of the admission. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once Eden says that she’s confused, once it has left her mouth and tangled with the breath of Richie’s, that makes it all the more true. She can’t erase it, now, even in twenty years if she’s married to a man and sipping martinis on a Yacht, or something. It’ll still be there, in someone’s mind besides her own. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fear subsides when she rounds the corner and sees Richie sitting there, freckles glowing beneath the light of the sun which seems to flow through the windows at every corner. Her hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, and Eden can’t prevent the wheezy breath she takes in at the purity of the scene. A moment lapses where Richie’s glasses are falling down her nose as her eyes scan across the age stained pages, and then she looks up and sees Eden and the moment dampens. It’s still there, but weaker now; as weak as the smile Eddie allows herself to send in Richie’s direction while she walks towards the seat across from Richie. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Derry feels like a match, but Eden feels flame resistant when she’s around Richie; nothing could harm them, if just for a moment, as the air around them pauses and makes way for their eyes to meet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, I know you didn’t want to talk about it,” Richie says, voice raspy and soft, and although Eddie had just spoken to her while they were at school it still feels like Richie has just woken up. The raspy, vulnerable voice. The same one that Eden heard last when Richie came out. Her bag has since been discarded onto the floor next to the table as she’d sat in the black chair, relatively uncomfortable, and her eyes widen just a bit as she turns them away from Richie’s in favor of looking at the two books she has set out in front of her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But, I thought, maybe I could help.” The end of her voice raises up, like a question, and it’s almost as if the statement is one. “So just, like, give me an hour? To explain it all?” Richie offers, hand tapping on the open book in front of her, and Eden wrinkles her eyebrows like she’s confused, and she is, but she still nods her head quietly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At this, Richie grins - and Richie is a match, too, really, but not in the threatening way that Derry is. Actually, Richie is a firework. Beautiful and untamed, sparking wide with unbridled passion. It shows itself there, in the wide smile of her mouth, and the fireworks spark in her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, well,” Richie pulls the opened book closer to herself and adjusts the glasses higher on her nose as if they wont just fall back down anyway, “You said you like girls, right? But you’re - y’know,” She motions to Eden, who looks down at her shirt self consciously - a pink shirt with a white club collar laying over it - “Girly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eden shifts awkwardly, finds that her mind is swarming with nothing but small, meaningless, cut outs of thoughts. Like letters cut from newspapers. They don’t mean anything, but they’re there, on a loop, treading through her brain. After a moment of averted eye contact, brown irises dancing in the direction of a white rug, she turns back to find Richie staring at a page in the book. “But,” Richie’s finger taps on the page, “There’s butch and, um, femmie? Femme - I think - femme lesbians.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes nervously flicker up to Eden’s, and there’s a lapse in time where oxygen hangs in the air, clouds freeze in the sky, and there is no movement in the world but the trembling of their shaky lungs. And then Eden nods to let Richie continue, which is countered with a tight lipped smile, and Richie looks back down to the page. “Butch girls are masculine, you know? Like - what you thought a lesbian might be. Boyish,” She pauses to glance at Eddie again, but her eyes focus quickly back on the page, “But then there’s femme lesbians - and they’re still lesbians, totally, but they’re girly. Like you.” She does it again; states the final statement like a question. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And maybe it is a question, really. A question that Eden has been asking herself for a while now.<em> Is it like her? Does she like girls?</em> The word - <em>lesbian</em> - terrifies her just as much as it fits. And now it fits even more, and she’s still so afraid, maybe even more so than she had been.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” She says, voice soft. She thinks, though, that she might know the answer already. She’s just too scared to admit it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie’s expression goes sympathetic, and she leans forward just the slightest bit in the old chair. It croaks beneath her. “Hey, you’ll figure it out someday,” she says, pouting like a sad puppy, and it eases Eden just a bit more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>/ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s harder on her own, in the dark silence of her bedroom that night. It’s a Wednesday, and she should be asleep, but her own mind is fighting against her. The ceiling hovers over her head, white but appearing gray with just a hint of blue thanks to the twilight seeping through her window. Sonia always hated when she kept the curtains open, but she loved the way the moonlight seeped through, falling gently against the floor of her room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not peaceful tonight, though; sure the wind is just gentle enough to sway the trees, shuffling leaves against each other, but her own mind is running rampant with angry memories which bubble to the surface. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She remembers the dream; feeling Richie’s lips against her own, gentle, not just a touch but a secret. And she remembers how Richie’s hands ran through her hair, tugging against her scalp gently; her own hands pressed into the curve of Richie’s soft jawline. She remembers real life, too. Remembers Richie laughing with her head thrown back, or curled in a ball resting her weight against Eddie on the couch, or walking through a fancy store in the mall and pretending to take interest in overly feminine, sparky gowns. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She remembers the feelings Richie invokes in her; the deep warmth in the pit of her gut, sometimes writhing, other times settled there comfortably like a kitten in its owner’s lap. She remembers the sparks that ignite on the surface of her flesh when Richie grabs her arm or holds her hand or tucks her head into the curve of her neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She remembers so much that it aches, deep inside her. There’s not a single memory that doesn’t make Eden feel entirely, completely in love. A dry sob wrenches from her before she even begins to cry, and her hands tremble up to cover her reddening face as she begins to cry. “I’m,” She tries, but the word won’t come, not even to herself, in the safety of her bedroom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She only cries harder, shakes more, and falls asleep with tears staining her plush cheeks. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Flood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eden doesn’t feel like the same person she had been just a few weeks ago. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two months ago Eddie was prim and proper. Well tamed and trimmed, the picture perfect girl to match her mother’s carefully plucked expectations of her. She painted her nails and scrubbed her hands clean and straightened her hair more often than not. Her mother’s influence shadowed upon her own personality - her own originality - causing her to be the cookie cutter version of herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But as she grew, and as life danced on in a blur of laughter and happiness and heartbreak, leaving her with a million emotions and a billion memories, she learned that something new sparked in herself. Something that she refused to let her mother cover up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Since she was little, Sonia loved forcing her in a box. Telling her the only way to be a good girl was to keep her hair long and her nails polished; telling her to always be clean. Even at age seven she’d steer clear of dirt in the playground, crossing her arms and pouting when all of her friends sat out in the field while she stood on her feet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But sometimes, Eden just wanted to be free. To let go of this senseless influence that had been forced on her from her mother, to actually be herself. Because she saw people like Beverly and Richie; girls who loved being girls, but weren’t always proper and well kept. Girls that laughed loud and cut their hair short and had their shoes stained with dirt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She found that, for such a long time, she’d been wishing to be so free before she even knew what it was to be free. Eden was growing up now, and she was learning more things about herself. Like that she loved dark chocolate, or that ladybugs are actually fun to hold, or that it isn’t so unpleasant to feel ice cream drip down onto your hands beneath the hot sun. And she was sixteen - and she learned that she liked girls. And she learned that that was okay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knew her mother wouldn’t be able to stand it, but there were a lot of truths about Eden that her mother wouldn’t be able to stand. She thought it was okay to be a little bit out of the box that was made for her, because she was growing up, and she didn’t fit in there so easily anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now that she was getting older, growing up, understanding that there were some little pieces of her that her mother would never really like, she figured that she better start getting used to it. The time on the clock read 6:52 AM, and her eyes flicker to it briefly as she inhales a deep breath of air into her lungs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she exhales, her eyes swim to the scissors on the ridge of the sink, and she quickly grabs them into her thin fingers. They’re cold, unused for so long since Sonia usually takes Eddie to the hair stylist to even get her dead ends trimmed off, and their a bit shaky in Eden’s inexperienced grip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She remembers Sonia, the way she’d always lean too close to scold Eden in public for the most simple little things. The way she’d tut and point at androgynous looking girls and tell Eden to never be like them. The way she’d hate, and hate, and hate, and do it so casually that Eddie never even considered it to be quite so bad.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And as she remembers this, she meets her own irises in the mirror, and she forces a smile despite the tears that swarm in her eyes. She remembers it all; the fear and the confusion and the sadness that plagued her life, always looming in the background, always whispering in her ear. She doesn’t know who she is yet - she’s still confused - but she knows that she has time. And not every bit of her self discovery has to be earth shattering. It can just be little puzzle pieces; and she wouldn’t be Eden Kaspbrak without every little piece. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is just another step, if a minuscule one, in learning what works for her. Not for her mother, not for Richie, not for all the pretty girls on television. For her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In her left hand, she holds her hair away from her chest, and she does something that she knows that Sonia Kaspbrak might never really like; but it’s also something that Eden likes an incredible amount. She cuts her hair. </span>
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  <span>Eden had always thought that the only thing that held together her amalgamation of emotions was her femininity. She liked to imagine herself sitting pretty on a throne as the world went to shit, legs crossed in her long gown as she stared on as flames ate away before her. And there was a silent promise that she, Eden Kaspbrak, was safe here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she was getting older. Getting taller, losing the baby fat around her tummy, developing her own interests and feelings beyond her mother’s influence. Because her mother was always there, even when not in sight, burrowed in the back of her mind like a parasite. Telling her that she was as fragile as a paper boat, and one wrong tug or twist and she would tear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe Derry was a match, a flame, burning with an angry passion. But this was her way of just taking another step from the throne and into the fire. She was tired of watching everyone have fun while she stood back - swimming in the Quarry, digging in the mud, licking dripping ice cream from waffle cones. She could practically feel the flames around her ankles as she left her mother’s house, skipping down the steps, backpack slung over her left shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Eden tugged open the passenger door of Richie’s car, meeting the other girl’s wide stare, she felt engulfed in heat. “Fuck, Eds, you look good,” Richie said, scanning over her quickly, and Eden could only shyly smile in response, face flushing, hands trembling as she shut the door behind her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie was always like that, really. Always smiling at her with wide eyes and telling her, for a fleeting moment of honesty, that she was pretty. Eden had always brushed it off, told herself that it was Richie being friendly, that the sparkle in her eyes and the wrinkle of her eyebrows was more teasing than it was admiring. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was more for the same reasons that Eden smiles and goes rosy in her cheeks with each compliment. For the same reasons that Eden, age fourteen, would stuff herself into the hammock next to Richie just to feel their skin collide. For the same reasons that goosebumps pricked her skin each time their arms brushed. Maybe Richie liked Eden in the same way that Eden liked her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eden didn’t know when it arose, just knew that it was swimming below the surface, slowly becoming easier to see, more distinguishable. It was there when Eden handed Richie her strawberry chapstick and smiled at the thought of an indirect kiss at age thirteen. There when Eden kissed over the Hello Kitty band-aid she’d pasted on Richie’s scrape when she was fourteen. When they held hands while walking home from school age fifteen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And now it’s here, prominent as ever, and Eden knows. Eden wants to kiss her. But she doesn’t.</span>
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</p><p>
  <span>Richie lives in an old but well-kept house, just on the edge of town, where houses were thinning but not scarce. It looks like it would hold a middle class family of snobs; maybe the kind of house Sonia would pluck had they not been so tight financially, but they were just a rather well off family when it came to money. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Eddie was younger, in the early years of friendship where she only knew Stan and Bill and Richie, before they started calling themselves Losers and huddling down in Ben’s clubhouse, she’d waddle around in her little yellow and pink dress, hair braided down her back, arms akimbo as her friends laughed around on the sidewalk, trying to ride Bill’s new skateboard. She remembered how tall and intimidating the house was at first, staring up at it as Richie used chalk to draw a hopscotch. But seven year old Eden had quickly got distracted from running from Richie’s pink stained fingers, squealing like an angry piglet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She could easily recall when Sonia would drive her to the doctor's office in her old van, the one she owned before she traded it out for a smaller and older little car that squeaked when you opened the passenger door; ten year old Eden, eleven year old Eden, twelve year old Eden, a time loop of the same little girl with the same dreamy eyes staring at the house, pointing a polished finger. “Richie’s house, Mama!” She’d say as it faded into and out of her sight, nearly smashing her face against the window. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It goes without saying that, as time passed, Eden’s fear of the house slowly faded from her mind; flickering out in spurts, like a room lit by a hundred candles and each flame being blown out one by one. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sonia didn’t know that Eddie was going out, and she didn’t need to. She ducked past the living room carefully, quietly slipping on her white sneakers; her alibi was already formed on her tongue if she was caught, but the angle of the couch that Sonia was sat on faced away from the foyer, and she managed to stuff her keys into her pocket and slip out of the door with ease. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rain already poured against the pavement, and it was 4:30 PM but the sun was hidden away from mountains of clouds, making it nearly as night as the evening. Hesitation flickered on her skin like lightning, but the world carried on, and decidedly, so did she. She didn’t bother to step over a puddle of rain water at the bottom of the steps, and it splashed around her ankle before settling back against the concrete and rolling back towards the divot in the sidewalk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cars were scarce on days like this, hidden out in latched and locked driveways instead of rolling the roads, and she was thankful for this. What would Sonia’s work friends think, had they seen little Eden Kaspbrak waddling down the sidewalk while rain padded against her tanned skin? What would the Greta Keene say? Would she still call her a spoiled princess in the girls’ bathrooms, pushing her against the door of a locked stall?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eden’s hair was already beginning to become slick from the rain water, and she was fleetingly but deeply thankful that Richie only lived a few blocks away. She wondered what Richie would say, when she knocked on her door. Wondered what she’d think. As much as Eden liked to try to force herself to refuse the opinions of others, especially within the past few days, she still seeks approval; especially someone who had always been so genuine and kind with her, throughout her entire life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Really, now that she thinks about it, as she walks beneath the pouring rain pouting like a wet cat, she thinks things were always meant to be this way. Sitting on Richie’s bedroom floor talking about owning a house together when they were eight, cuddling in her bed when they were ten; it was something that was there, bounded within her. A universal truth. Eden Kaspbrak was always meant to fall in love with her best friend. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And, now that she unlocked that secret, whispered it into the darkness of the night and allowed it to echo off of her walls and swim back within her, becoming a part of her that she was forced to acknowledge, she knew that it couldn’t stay there forever. Because they were best friends, down to the secrets, down to the promises. Eden needed to say it, and she needed to say it to Richie. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she was younger, probably only six years old, she’d sit cross-legged on the couch and watch Disney movies; Ariel, Snow White, Cinderella, all meeting their handsome prince and kissing and falling in love. When she was eleven, she started watching romcoms, smiling and eating kettle corn as she watched the various cliche confessions of love play out on the TV before Mama told her to go off to bed for the night. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she was sixteen years old, she walked through the pouring rain to make her own, beautifully cliche confession. Because she was allowed to. Because she liked Richie Tozier, always, and that wasn’t wrong or abnormal just because they were both girls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t long before she turned up outside of the Tozier house, rain pouring hard, her dark hair sticking to her dampened forehead. She looked up at it, shadowed by clouds, and found that, for the first time in years, she was intimidated by it. She was afraid. But she was brave. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All her life she was. Like how she helped her friends when they scraped their knees even if she was afraid of their blood. Or how, if she really had to, she’d stick with them a bit after her curfew even if Sonia got mad. How, now, she marched up the steps of their porch and up to the familiar door, knocking her fist against the wood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause, a lapse in time, and the world is muted in her ears as she pushes a bit of her hair away from her face while she waits for the door to open. It’s that moment in the movie before a jump scare, where you can sense it as more and more seconds pass, and you peer at the screen through the cracks between your fingers while you wait. Then the door opens, and the world continues. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie is there, and she’s still in her clothes from school that morning - shorts and a t-shirt tucked into them with a too bright button up on top, and she’d just seen her but that doesn’t stop Eden from looking at her as if she’s hung the stars. “Eds, what the fuck,” Richie says, furrowing her eyebrows, but Eddie puts her hands up and she stops talking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eden’s mind swims, grasp through the air for something, and then latches - “You’ll figure it out someday, right?” She asks, echoing back the words Richie had spoke to her over the library books that she’d plucked from the shelves just for Eddie, because she cares, and butterflies swarm in her chest when Richie furrows her eyebrows and tilts her head, “That’s - It’s what you said, at the library, I’ll figure it out, and I have! I’ve figured it out--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can we talk about this inside?” Richie asks, looking more concerned than anything, because the rain pours harder and pounds against the pavement and Eddie’s eye makeup might be running despite its claims to be waterproof. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No!” Eddie shouts, and she can’t tell if a tear has escaped from her eye or if it’s a drop of rain, but it doesn’t matter because she’s trembling from head to toe either way, “No, we can’t - because I gotta do this, Richie! I deserve this! I figured it out, I know now, and you helped me… and of course you did, because you’re,” She stops to motion to Richie, who looks endeared, concerned, and confused, all shoved into one human being. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something about the purity of the moment sends Eddie’s mind floating, hovering, unable to think or worry or speak because all she can see is Richie. Richie who chased her down with chalk on her hands when they were seven. Richie who let her clean her would and kiss the band-aid that covered it at age fourteen. Richie who is her best friend, and has been forever, and feels like her soulmate in every sense of the word. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eddie?” Richie asks, voice soft, and Eddie mumbles something about her being so fucking stupid and grabs her by either side of her button up and yanks her into the pouring rain, onto her wooden porch, and slips her hands up to Richie’s neck to pull her down and kiss her on the mouth. She’s never felt more in her entire life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her lips are warm, and they feel soft and pliant as they move against each other softly, and the world hovers around them. She doesn’t know if the goosebumps are from the cold or the passion that surges through her body as her fingers brush against the dark hair at the nape of Richie’s neck. She’s shaking like she’s afraid, but she’s not anymore. She’s safe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are moments where you get to see Richie serious. Moments that flash on her face, in the glance of her eyes, or the curve of her lips, or the tone of her voice. Moments like fireflies. But kissing Richie in the pouring rain isn’t comparable to grasping one of the fireflies, especially not as she feels Richie holding onto her shoulders like a vice, not pushing her away but pulling her closer, keeping her steady. Kissing Richie is a million fireflies shining, flashing, flying through the night sky and treading along your skin. Kissing Richie is igniting a firework and knowing that, when you step back and stare at it, you’ll see something beautiful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And, despite all the fear the world wishes to give her, and all the things her mother taught her to fear, kissing Richie is safe. Like returning home. </span>
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  <span>Eden sips from the warm mug of tea, wrapped in a towel as she sat next to Richie on the couch. The other girl had hoarded her mother and father from the living room, who had laughed and rolled their eyes as they went up to their bedroom. Eddie sniffled a little, nose stuffed up from the cold. Richie’s stare trained on her was equal parts fond and amused. Eddie can't blame her, it's not every day that a real life human being decides to pull the most cliche love confession. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eden meets her eye, blushes, and looks back down to her tea. “<em>So</em>,” Richie sing songs awkwardly, a grin formed on the same lips that Eddie had kissed not twenty minutes prior, and Eddie feels teased but not in a bad way - she’s actually so, <em>unbelievably</em> happy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie goes to say something else, but softly, like a mouse, Eden says, “I’m a lesbian.” Richie’s eyebrows raise higher, and Eddie knows that it;s pretty obvious after the kiss that she isn’t straight, but it feels good to say it out loud; to admit it to someone other than herself, rather in the bathroom mirror or on her back on the mattress as she stares at the ceiling above her. When she meets Richie’s eyes again, swimming in her chocolate brown irises, she breathes out, “And I like you. A <em>lot</em>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie exhales a shaky laugh that is built on more relief than humor, and her eyes rise with sudden tears, flooding with them. Eden has never really seen her cry before, and she doesn’t know how to feel, but something stabs her in the chest at the sight. She wants to protect her, to pull her close and never see her cry again, to never let anything harm her. “I like you too, Eddie,” Richie says, and her voice is so disbelieving that Eden starts to cry too. She clambers to place her half empty mug of tea onto the coffee table, and as soon as it’s out of her grasp she pulls Richie into a hug and sobs into her shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Over the years of Eden Kaspbrak's life, she’s learned a million things. How to tie her laces, how to paint her nails, how to clean a wound. And she’s learned how to love, and how it feels to be loved. She’s learned that it’s hard sometimes, but it takes time and patience; not only with yourself, but with the world. And it’s okay to feel unclean sometimes, too. To not always present as hygenic and well kept, to not always do your makeup or polish your nails or straighten your hair. It’s okay to be unclean; and the people that matter most wont love you despite this, but alongside it. Just another thing about you that they admire. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eden still has many years left of her life; to learn, and experience, and teach, and love. Love like passion and fireworks, but also love like peace and quiet; a billion shades of the same emotion, the same gentleness and mirth. She learns to love this little part of her that feels unclean; and as time goes on, she finds that it fades, and as she learns to love herself, she doesn’t feel so unclean anymore. </span>
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